Jed Briscoe rejoined the round-up the day following Fraser's
initiation. He took silent note of the Texan's popularity, of how the
boys all called him "Steve" because he had become one of them, and
were ready either to lark with him or work with him. He noticed, too,
that the ranger did his share of work without a whimper, apparently
enjoying the long, hard hours in the saddle. The hill riding was of
the roughest, and the cattle were wild as deers and as agile. But
there was no break-neck incline too steep for Steve Fraser to follow.

Once Jed chanced upon Steve stripped for a bath beside the creek, and
he understood the physical reason for his perfect poise. The wiry,
sinuous muscles, packed compactly without obtrusion, played beneath
the skin like those of a panther. He walked as softly and as easily as
one, with something of the rippling, unconscious grace of that jungle
lord. It was this certainty of himself that vivified the steel-gray
eyes which looked forth unafraid, and yet amiably, upon a world
primitive enough to demand proof of every man who would hold the
respect of his fellows.

Meanwhile, Briscoe waited for Struve and his enemy to become entangled
in the net he was spinning. He made no pretense of fellowship with
Fraser; nor, on the other hand, did he actively set himself against
him with the men. He was ready enough to sneer when Dick France grew
enthusiastic about his new friend, but this was to be expected from
one of his jaundiced temper.

"We'll be there to see it. Mebbe he will. Mebbe he won't. I've known
men before who thought they were going to."

It was in no moment of good-natured weakness that Fraser had consented
to try riding the outlaw horses. Nor had his vanity anything to do
with it. He knew a time might be coming when he would need all the
prestige and all the friendship he could earn to tide him over the
crisis. Jed Briscoe had won his leadership, partly because he could
shoot quicker and straighter, ride harder, throw a rope more
accurately, and play poker better than his companions,

Steve had a mind to show that he, too, could do some of these things
passing well. Wherefore, he had let himself be badgered good-naturedly
into trying a fall with these famous buckers. As the heavy work of the
round-up was almost over, Dillon was glad to relax discipline enough
to give the boys a little fun.

The remuda was driven up while the outfit was at breakfast. His
friends guyed Steve with pleasant prophecy.

Fraser grinned and continued to eat. When he had finished he got his
lariat from the saddle, swung to Siegfried's pony, and rode
unobtrusively forward to the remuda. The horses were circling round
and round, so that it was several minutes before he found a chance.
When he did, the rope snaked forward and dropped over the head of the
strawberry roan. The horse stood trembling, making not the least
resistance, even while the ranger saddled and cinched.

But before the man settled to the saddle, the outlaw was off on its
furious resistance. It went forward and up into the air with a
plunging leap. The rider swung his hat and gave a joyous whoop. Next
instant there was a scatter of laughing men as the horse came toward
them in a series of short, stiff-legged bucks which would have jarred
its rider like a pile driver falling on his head had he not let
himself grow limp to meet the shock.

All the tricks of its kind this unbroken five-year-old knew. Weaving,
pitching, sunfishing, it fought superbly, the while Steve rode with
the consummate ease of a master. His sinuous form swayed instinctively
to every changing motion of his mount. Even when it flung itself back
in blind fury, he dropped lightly from the saddle and into it again as
the animal struggled to its feet.

The cook waved a frying pan in frantic glee. "Hurra-ay! You're the
goods, all right, all right."

An unseen spectator was taking it in from the brow of a little hill
crowned with a group of firs. She had reached this point just as the
Texan had swung to the saddle, and she watched the battle between
horse and man intently. If any had been there to see, he might have
observed a strange fire smouldering in her eyes. For the first time
there was filtering through her a vague suspicion of this man who
claimed to have heart trouble, and had deliberately subjected himself
to the terrific strain of such a test. She had seen broncho busters
get off bleeding at mouth and nose and ears after a hard fight, and
she had never seen a contest more superbly fought than this one. But
full of courage as the horse was, it had met its master and began to
know it.

The ranger's quirt was going up and down, stinging Dead Easy to more
violent exertions, if possible. But the outlaw had shot its bolt. The
plunges grew less vicious, the bucks more feeble. It still pitched,
because of the unbroken gameness that defied defeat, but so
mechanically that the motions could be forecasted.

Then Steve began to soothe the brute. Somehow the wild creatu ecame
aware that this man who was his master was also disposed to be
friendly. Presently it gave up the battle, quivering in every limb.
Fraser slipped from the saddle, and putting his arm across its neck
began to gentle the outlaw. The animal had always looked the
incarnation of wickedness. The red eyes in its ill-shaped head were
enough to give one bad dreams. A quarter of an hour before, it had bit
savagely at him. Now it stood breathing deep, and trembling while its
master let his hand pass gently over the nose and neck with soft words
that slowly won the pony back from the terror into which it had worked
itself.

"You did well, Mr. Fraser from Texas," Jed complimented him, with a
smile that thinly hid his malice. "But it won't do to have you going
back to Texas with the word that Wyoming is shy of riders. I ain't any
great shakes, but I reckon I'll have to take a whirl at Rocking
Horse." He had decided to ride for two reasons. One was that he had
glimpsed the girl among the firs; the other was to dissipate the
admiration his rival had created among the men.

Briscoe lounged toward the remuda, rope in hand. It was his cue to get
himself up picturesquely in all the paraphernalia of the cowboy.
Black-haired and white-toothed, lithe as a wolf, and endowed with a
grace almost feline, it was easy to understand how this man appealed
to the imagination of the reckless young fellows of this primeval
valley. Everything he did was done well. Furthermore, he looked and
acted the part of leader which he assumed.

Rocking Horse was in a different mood from its brother. It was hard to
rope, and when Jed's raw-hide had fallen over its head it was
necessary to reŽnforce the lariat with two others. Finally the pony
had to be flung down before a saddle could be put on. When Siegfried,
who had been kneeling on its head, stepped back, the outlaw staggered
to its feet, already badly shaken, to find an incubus clamped to the
saddle.

No matter how it pitched, the human clothespin stuck to his seat, and
apparently with as little concern as if he had been in a rowboat
gently moved to and fro by the waves. Jed rode like a centaur, every
motion attuned to those of the animal as much as if he were a part of
it. No matter how it pounded or tossed, he stuck securely to the
hurricane deck of the broncho.

Once only he was in danger, and that because Rocking Horse flung
furiously against the wheel of a wagon and ground the rider's leg till
he grew dizzy with the pain. For an instant he caught at the saddle
horn to steady himself as the roan bucked into the open again.

"I don't accept that as binding, Jed. Lots of people here don't.
Because Lost Valley used to be a nest of miscreants, it needn't always
be. I don't see what right we've got to set ourselves above the law."

"This valley has always stood by hunted men when they reached it.
That's our custom, and I mean to stick to it."

"Very well. I hold you to that," she answered quickly. "This man
Fraser is a hunted man. He's hunted because of what he did for me and
dad. I claim the protection of the valley for him."

"He can have it-- if he's what he says he is. But why ain't he been
square with us? Why didn't he tell who he was?"

Nevertheless, she met the ranger at the foot of the little hill with
distinct coldness. When he came up to shake hands, she was too busy
dismounting to notice.

"Your heart must be a good deal better. I suppose Lost Valley agrees
with you." She had swung down on the other side of the horse, and her
glance at him across the saddle seat was like a rapier thrust.

He was aware at once of being in disgrace with her, and it chafed him
that he had no adequate answer to her implied charge.

She trailed the reins and turned away at once to find her father. The
girl was disappointed in him. He had, in effect, lied to her. That was
bad enough; but she felt that his lie had concealed something, how
much she scarce dared say. Her tangled thoughts were in chaos. One
moment she was ready to believe the worst; the next, it was impossible
to conceive such a man so vile a spy as to reward hospitality with
treachery.

Yet she remembered now that it had been while she was telling of the
fate of the traitor Burke that she had driven him to his lie. Or had
he not told it first when she pointed out Lost Valley at his feet?
Yes, it was at that moment she had noticed his pallor. He had, at
least, conscience enough to be ashamed of what he was doing. But she
recognized a wide margin of difference between the possibilities of
his guilt. It was one thing to come to the valley for an escaped
murderer; it was quite another to use the hospitality of his host as a
means to betray the friends of that host. Deep in her heart she could
not find it possible to convict him of the latter alternative. He was
too much a man, too vitally dynamic. No; whatever else he was, she
felt sure he was not so hopelessly lost to decency. He had that
electric spark of self-respect which may coexist with many faults, but
not with treachery.